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“How’s the hunt for an apartment going?” he asks.
“Okay. I’m probably looking at a November first move date, though.” Because Tristan has asked me not to get a place before then.
“Don’t worry about it. The season’s starting. I want you in a nice place, and I want to help you with that,” Flip says.
“You helped with university. I can cover my own rent.” He already helps our parents. I can make my own way.
“I know you can, but I can make it easier on you, Rix. So let me, okay?”
“We’ll see.” I hate taking money from Flip, but he has a point. A little help would open options for a better apartment. “I’m sure you guys would like your game room back.”
“Eh, it’s been nice having you around—and not just because you’re a master at meal prep. We haven’t lived in the same house since I was called up. It’s been cool seeing you rocking it at life.” He taps the steering wheel. “You and Tris seem to be getting along okay. Or at least being civil?”
“Oh yeah. Mostly, we stay out of each other’s way.” When he’s not busy turning me into a human pretzel, anyway.
Or taking me on the most thoughtful date I’ve ever had.
“He’s not a bad guy.” Flip sounds defensive.
“I didn’t say he was.” I honestly think he’s a great guy. He’s thoughtful, and the way he is with his brothers makes my heart melty. He’s a caretaker. Maybe not on purpose, but I see it.
“His mom leaving really fucked him up.” Flip stops for a red light. “Like, more than I think he’s willing to admit.”
“I vaguely remember when that happened, but I was only eight, I think?” I try not to sound too eager for information. Tristan is pretty closed off when it comes to talking about any emotion apart from lust. And sometimes anger or jealousy.
“Her leaving was probably the best thing that happened to that family. She was…not a good mom.” He taps on the steering wheel. “Not like ours. I know we struggled a lot, but we were loved. Are loved.”
“Yeah, we really are.” I message my mom daily, and we talk on the phone twice a week. Though I haven’t said anything about Tristan for obvious reasons. My parents couldn’t give us financial stability, but they gave us love, and a lot of it.
As if she knows we’re talking about her, Mom messages. I set the phone in Flip’s holder and take the opportunity to call her.
“Well isn’t this lovely! My two babies spending time together.” Mom says. “Are you in the car? What are you two up to?”
“Heading to East Side’s for lunch.”
“You’re still doing that once a month?” Mom asks.
“We try.”
We chat for a few minutes, Mom asking Flip about the upcoming season and me about my job. My dad has taken a cash job over Thanksgiving weekend, so we’ll have to figure out another time to see them. They only have two days off, anyway, so the drive would have been hard to manage.
After we end the call, I ask, “What was Tristan’s mom like?” I only met her a few times. His dad would come by and have beers with my dad sometimes, but his mom never came.
“She had a short fuse, and she was hard on everyone. She was always yelling. Always. I don’t remember ever being at Tris’s house when there wasn’t a fight. Not until after she left. She went off about anything and everything. Once she even screamed at me. I think I left an empty pop can on the coffee table or something. I remember being confused by how upset she was over something that wouldn’t have been a big deal in our house,” he says.
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” I muse.
“Yeah. It was messy. And Tristan took the brunt of it because he was the oldest. He hates yelling. Like, hates it. Last year he was seeing this woman for a while, not long, maybe a couple of months, and she threw this absolute fit about something. A picture someone took, maybe? It was out of context, as stuff often is. But she lit right into him. I’ve never seen anybody shut down the way he does.” He runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head at the memory. “She was screaming her head off, and he went into his room, got all her shit, tossed it into the hallway, and told her to get the fuck out. And that was it. He blocked her contact and never spoke to her again.”
“Yeesh. Sounds like she needed some anger management.”
“Yeah, she was on fire for sure. But he doesn’t deal with conflict well.”
“Maybe he has his reasons.” And it explains so much—like his reaction to me getting upset over the ice cream and cake. Tristan and I push each other’s buttons, often on purpose, but he never yells. He gets agitated, and cruel, but he doesn’t raise his voice.
